


Ribcages and Rosebuds

by SeasInkarnadine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Additionally inspired by the #metoo movement, College Campus, Consent, F/F, Feminism, Hurt/Comfort, I promise a happy ending, M rating due to sensitive nature of the material, Modern AU, No Means No, Rape Culture, S/V, Sexual Assault, Vigilante Justice, You do NOT need to know anything about sweet/vicious to read this, also mildly inspired by jessica jones, american legal system, carry that weight, college students, realistic consequences of trauma, sensationalism is intended to be minimal, so feminist it almost hurts, sweet/vicious - Freeform, take back the night, title IX, yes all women
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeasInkarnadine/pseuds/SeasInkarnadine
Summary: After noticing a pattern of complacency in the way her university handles sexual assault cases, sorority sister Clarke Griffin decides to take matters into her own hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that this heals rather than hurts.  
> Trigger warnings will be precluded by *** and (TRIGGER WARNING)  
> Please exercise caution while reading this work.

It starts, as many things do, with a phone call.

“Clarke?”  
She winces.

She didn’t mean to hit ‘accept’.

She’s in the art studio. The setting sun is casting long shadows through the high rise windows and bathing the room in gold orange. Except for her, the room is deserted

“Uhh… hi. Now isn’t really a good time.”

 

It is the perfect time to call.

“Wait, Clarke, please, I haven’t heard your voice in months.” She hesitates. It’s not often that Abby begs. 

She shifts the phone to her other hand. 

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.” Clarke recognizes the sound of relief in Abby’s voice. 

“I’m doing great, thanks.” The lie comes easy to her lips.She’s gotten pretty good at lying recently. So good that she almost believes them herself sometimes.

But Abby is still Clarke’s mother.

“You don’t seem okay.” Clarke closes her eyes and clenches the phone in her fist, trying to rally the strength necessary to get through this conversation.

“Clarke, sweetie...you haven’t been home since last Christmas.” Last week was labor day. How many months is that? 8? 9? She glances over at the mess of paint thrown onto her canvas. It looks like a bomb went off. Which was the point, really. But it doesn’t make her feel better.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on.” At least that one’s not a lie.

“Well, do you want to tell me about it?” No. If she gives voice to the darkness residing in her chest it may very well consume her whole. 

“I’ve explained most of it in my e-mails.”  
“I noticed that you’re not taking any art classes this semester.” Clarke flips the paint brush in her hand.

“Yeah. Kind of in a funk, I guess.” Kind of being an understatement. Last year it had been increasingly difficult to find inspiration, to the point of it being a chore. That still hasn’t changed. She’s not sure what she was hoping to get out of this excursion today.

There’s a rush of static over the phone as Abby exhales. 

The next time she speaks her voice is harsh.

“This isn’t about dad, is it?”

She closes her eyes. White tiles flash behind her lids.

“Clarke? Is it?”

“No.” Well… not entirely, at least. 

“Are you sure? Because it feels an awful lot like you’re still punishing me for it.” 

Jake was in a horrible car accident four years ago. He needed a new liver. He was on the list, but far from the top. Abby could have pulled a few strings to fix that (being the surgeon general at the facility), but she didn’t, and Clarke still hasn’t entirely forgiven her for it.

“The silent treatment? Really, Clarke? I thought you outgrew that.” Apparently not. “I am trying, here.” There’s some muffled sounds from the speaker like she’s shifting the phone from one ear to the other. 

Still, Clarke can’t bring herself to say anything. The words feel all knotted up in her throat, a snarl she can’t possibly hope to untangle in the brief moment she has to reply. 

“Give me something, Clarke. Anything…” Her desperation only seems to push the words further down Clarke’s throat. “Goddammit, I am paying for your education and you can’t even be bothered to talk to me? Don’t you think this has been hard on me, too? I miss him. I miss him every day. I miss you, too. It feels like I lost my daughter and my husband at the same time.” Abby doesn’t say it like she intends to inflict wounds, but Clarke could swear her chest has been sliced open.

She doesn't know what to say. She doesn’t know what to say. She has no idea how to say it. Desperately, she wishes dad was here. He’d know exactly what to do. About mom, about...everything else. 

The hole in her hollow heart aches with a fierceness that she thought she had forgotten. The scar tissue there feels as tender as it did four years ago.  
She lifts a shaking hand to cover her mouth, a reinforcement to buttress the buckling gates under the building water pressure.

Clarke’s an intelligent individual. She understands that the universe began billions of years ago. She comprehends the weight of gravity, the substance of mass, the speed of velocity. And she knows that she absolutely, positively, cannot let Abby Griffin hear her cry.

Another rush of static.  
“Are you even listening to me, Clarke?” she sounds so painfully sad. The words are clumsy scalpels stabbing in the cavity of her chest.

She swallows and blinks rapidly. 

“Mhm” She’s afraid that proper words will give her away.

“You don’t even care. You want it to be this way? Cut communication off with your own family? Fine. Two can play at that game. Don’t call me the next time you need money on your card.” And that’s it. She hangs up.

Clarke stares at the black screen of her phone for another hour.

\--

Right from the start she knows it’s a bad idea.

She knows where her feet are taking her. 

The roar of bitter frustration and burning desire to do something is too strong a creature for Clarke to even begin to deny.

She lets it happen.

She goes to the Eagle’s Roost. 

It’s a Thursday night but there’s still an army of frat boys stomping around. They’re playing pool, tossing darts, drinking at the bar, at the tables, by the bathrooms, probably hanging from the rafters like some kinds of vampire bats. They are a pack of apex predators on the hunt, and it doesn’t take them long to identify Clarke (isolated as she is) as the weakest beast in the herd.

She’s been there for maybe ten, fifteen minutes when a red headed boy slides onto the stool next to her.

“Hey.” He says with a toothy smile. She glances over briefly, sizing him up. He’s wearing jeans and a red zip up hoodie. He’s not bad looking. There’s a smattering of freckles beneath his light brown eyes. “I’m sorry to hassle you like this, but, uh, would you mind settling a bet between my friends and I?” He gestures over his shoulder to a group of three girls and a guy.

She swivels on her seat to face him. 

“That depends on the bet.” She catches him staring at her lips. He isn’t shy about it.

“Are you a freshman, or a sophomore?”

“Neither.” She sips her beer. “Junior.”

“Oh shit,” His laugh is full and bright and Clarke can’t help but smile a little as well. Maybe her initial conclusion about this crowd being full of hunters was incorrect.

He hops off of his stool and returns to his friends.

After five minutes she starts to think he won’t come back. 

“Hey, me again.” She startles. He laughs again. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” He puts a hand on her shoulder and she swears she can feel something foul curling in her stomach.

“Yeah.” She forces a smile.

“I’m gonna buy you a beer.” He declares. “For bothering you earlier. And for startling you. And maybe because that was the deal for losing the bet.”

“Didn’t you both lose the bet?” She feels like ten pounds are lifted off of her back when he removes his hand. He slides onto the stool next to her.

“Yep. So he’s gotta buy me a beer.”

“So technically I should be thanking your friend for the beer.”

“I lied. He’s gotta clean my underwear by hand for a month.”

She laughs and it’s only a little forced.

“And maybe because I want to get to know you better.” She's just tipsy enough to say yes.

\--

In the end the red head buys her a beer and two shots of tequila. 

He’s nice.

He’s a Lambda, one of the Greek houses just across the street. He smells like spices and cider apples. He laughs at her half-hearted jokes and doesn’t pry when she mentions family difficulties. He doesn’t play any sports, but he goes running every morning. He’s a junior, like she is. He sheepishly admits to being into Magic the Gathering and Dungeons and Dragons, but hasn’t been involved in a game since high school.

After the first touch, the initial startle, she slowly begins to thaw. When he places a hand on her knee for a moment it doesn’t set off the same cacophony of alarm bells. He finds dozens of little ways to make contact. Nudging their knees together. Brushing the back of her hand with his knuckles. He points out an eyelash on her cheek and she even lets him brush it away.

He’s nice.

The next time she checks the clock it’s closing in on midnight.

“It’s getting late. I oughta go.” Clarke says as she pushes a strand of blonde hair back over her ear.  
“I see.” He looks down at his empty glass, clearly trying to hide his disappointment. She bites her lip, the gears in her head spinning wildly. She’s not boiling with the same bitter anxiety she stormed in here with. She doesn’t want to burn off the excess of energy with a quick fuck. But he’s better company than she’s had in a while.

“You...wanna walk me back to my house?”  
\--

“I like to cut through the alley and across the soccer field to get back. Makes me feel like a rebel.” She explains to him as she navigates her way through the sea of people. Once he realizes where she wants to go he pushes ahead and clears a path for her. This time when she smiles it’s totally genuine. Maybe there are still a few chivalrous men left in the world.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The door to the alley is technically an emergency exit but the bell broke ages ago and the manager still hasn’t gotten around to replacing it. Someday he’s going to get hell from the fire marshals.

It’s clear outside. She can see a few stars twinkling out on the blanket of the sky, determined to shine even against the light pollution the college town is dumping out. The air is thick and warm with the barest hint of the approaching autumn chill. 

On a night like this it's easy to pretend that none of last year happened. She almost starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything is gonna turn out right.

The red head, it seems, is determined to prove her wrong.

***  
**(TRIGGER WARNING)**

As soon as the door finishes closing behind them he’s on her. Crowding into her space.

Her earlier anxiety hits her with the full force of a freight train.

“What’re--” He slots his hips against hers, trapping her against the wall. 

“I saw the way you were looking at me.” Yeah, I was wondering if you noticed the smear of ketchup on your lip. “And you let me buy you three drinks.” he grins at her like they're sharing some kind of inside joke.

“Stop.” she instructs, holding her arms between them to act as a buffer. “There’s been a misunderstanding.” his palms are placed flat against the wall on either side of her head.

“It’s okay.” he smiles. How daft can men be? “It’s okay.” She wants to snarl at him, none of this is okay! But he presses his lips against hers, effectively silencing her protest. They’re secluded beneath the fire escape, two shadowy figures sharing a passionate moment behind a college bar.

It stinks. Literally. Garbage day must be tomorrow from how the dumpsters smell. She can’t believe she didn’t notice it before.

His hands are rough on her sides. His stubble scratches her chin. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to deal with this. She’s tempted to let go. Slide away. Ignore him til it’s over, spend her thoughts on the dumpsters and how the lid’s propped open, why the employee bringing it out might have left open the chain link fence at the end of the alley.

She turns her head and her arms are still wedged awkwardly between them. It does not seem to deter him. He presses against her, perhaps trying to encourage her into action.

Something hardens within Clarke.

“Stop.” Her voice is crisp and clear.

He does not stop.

“No.” She tries to push him away, but he slides a leg between hers and ignores her scrabbling hands. She reaches back against the brick, searching desperately for purchase. She thrusts her hips, trying to bend a leg enough to get in a kick, to force some space between them. He only seems to be encouraged by her behavior. His tongue is hot and slick against her neck and Clarke’s insides crawl violently. 

**(END TRIGGER WARNING)**

**  
*****

“I said no!” She snarls, lashing out at him with her hands.  
He stumbles backwards.

Clarke’s mildly surprised. After all that, now he chooses to listen?  
But then she realizes.

How did…? Blood sluices down his face.

There’s something warm on her hand.

She drops the brick she didn’t realize she was holding with an audible ‘ta-tonk’.

And then, because this is the kind of night it’s turning out to be: the bright halogen lights of a flashlight.

“Campus security! Stay where you are!”

Well, shit.

\--

The flashlight bobs as the security officer navigates his way around the pickup truck at the other end of the alley. A wild part of Clarke actually considers running, like it would help, like she’s actually goes jogging every morning instead of sleeping in or nursing a coffee over morning lecture. Like if she runs far enough and fast enough she might just be able to avoid her problems.

“She hit me!” her attacker is totally incredulous, like he can’t even believe that it happened despite the irrefutable evidence laid out in front of him. Clarke can’t believe it herself. Never in her life has she been a violent person. Loud? Yes. Bossy? Perhaps. But violent…?  
Violence is a last, desperate resort.  
But hadn’t she been? Desperate? She tried to tell him no. She tried. Clarke straightens her back and attempts to beat back the tiny voice nagging at the back of her head telling her this is all her fault. 

She squints into the bright light pointed in her direction, refusing to raise a hand to shield her eyes. All she can tell from this guy’s shadow is that he’s big. 

“10-78 in the alley behind The Roost, please?” His radio scratches loudly when he releases the speaker button. He isn’t pointing the light at Clarke anymore, at least. “Want me to see to your wound?” he asks the guy.

“I’d rather you arrest her!” he replies.  
Clarke has to bite her tongue to keep from slinging back a scathing reply.

“Campus authority isn’t authorized to make arrests, but if you’d like we can write up an incident report and begin to take your statement while we wait for the police arrive.”

“I want her to face consequences! She attacked me!”

“I defended myself.” 'She' in question states firmly.

“You lead me out back here and hit me with a goddamn brick the second I tried to kiss you!” That’s what he thinks happened? 

“You pushed me against the wall without my consent.” She holds her chin up in defiance. “I never wanted anything more than a friendly conversation and some company.”

He laughs and it causes a spray of blood to smack across her cheek.

She felt guilty, at first, for hitting him. Now she’s kind of wishing she got a few more swings in before the officer decided to show up.

“Is that what the bartender is gonna say? Is that what everyone who saw us leave the bar together is gonna say?”

She scoffs.

“I don’t even know your name!” 

“It’s Adam. What’s yours?”

She bristles.

“I don’t think that I am comfortable with you having that information.”

The officer butts in.  
“Well right now, it’s a ‘he said, she said’ situation, so--”

“No, it’s not.” At the other end of the alley, framed by the open gateway of the chain link fence, stands a young woman. And not just any young woman.

“Miss Woods.” the security guy stands a little taller.

“Lincoln.” She returns. There’s a grey messenger bag thrown over her shoulder. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and the first few buttons of her black dress shirt are popped. She strides into the alley with purpose.

There are a lot of rumors about Lexa Woods.

Clarke’s personal favorite is the one about her emerging fully grown from the Dean’s head like Athena. 

It’s fitting, she thinks, to compare this beautiful, deadly creature to a heavenly host. 

They stand in complete silence as Lexa looks at each of them in turn.

Her eyes lock onto Clarke’s..

“She acted in self defense.”

A pause.

“You saw what happened?” Lincoln asks.

“I did.”

“So… "

“She cried out ‘no’, which is what drew my attention to the alley. I arrived to see that he had her pinned against the wall. Before I could intervene she forced him away with a single blow to the head.” She turns to Lincoln. “Clear cut self defense.”

“Alright.” He nods.

“Would you please see that...” she trails off, her attention directed to the red head.

“Adam Johnson.”

“Would you see that Adam gets proper medical attention, and then help him home?”

“But I want to report--” Adam starts. Lexa is a good six inches shorter and yet she towers over him.

“No. You don’t.” She turns her back to him to make it clear that she’s done with the conversation.

“I will accompany you home.” She informs Clarke, who is still a little too shell shocked by this whole thing to protest.

They walk to the end of the alley and out of Adam’s sight.

“Where do you live?” Lexa asks.

“I’m in the Alpha Nu Omega house, but I think I can handle myself from here.” Clarke doesn’t need to babysat, for crying out loud.

“Goodnight, then.” Lexa nods, not bothering to push the point, for which Clarke is grateful. She turns on her heel and takes off in exactly the opposite direction of the alleyway. Clarke pulls out her phone, pretending to be busy, and surreptitiously watches Lexa stride off across the campus. What was she doing here, anyway…?

Clarke looks over her shoulder back to the alley.  
Wait.  
Hang on.  
She can’t see the backdoor from behind the dumpsters at this angle.  
Which means--  
There is absolutely no way Lexa Woods could see them from the entrance of the alley.

 

\--

She should just let it go.

She can’t let it go.

Clarke follows Lexa.

Even as her shoes slap against the pavement she knows it’s a bad idea.  
What’s she going to say when she catches up? ‘Why did you lie for me’? Lexa’s like, the Dean’s daughter or something. She doesn’t break the rules. Unless of course, she does.  
Clarke makes the questionable decision to let her curiosity run wild.

She tails Lexa along Dexter St for a way before it cuts off into a trail which takes them past one of the music buildings, past a military recruitment building, past one of the business halls, a parking garage, one of the old now abandoned science labs, across Main Street, past an Engineering building, past Telyea Hall Housing… They’ve crossed from one remote corner of campus to another. Clarke’s exhaustion is starting to overtake her rapidly dwindling curiosity. Who cares what Lexa was thinking? Maybe it was a random act of kindness. 

Then she catches Lexa disappearing into one of the bathrooms attached to the Cartwright stadium. Isn’t that supposed to be limited access for the women's sports teams…? Clarke arrives at the door to find that it’s propped open with a brick. Huh.

She slips inside.

Only half of the lights are on and a “caution, wet floor” sign which immediately give it the vibe of a horror movie location. Then she hears a door close and the sound of a group of girls laughing in the distance and relaxes a fraction. 

Where did Lexa go? This locker room is a damn maze. She’s walking around a curve of lockers when she sees it.  
A huge white wall.  
A dead end.  
But more importantly,  
A list of names.

And above that list:  
SEXUAL ASSAULT VIOLATORS ON CAMPUS

Each name is scrawled in different handwriting, with a different pen or marker.  
As her eyes rove the canvas one name in particular sticks out to her.

 

Adam Johnson.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings preceded and followed by ***  
> Chapter 3 will be up in a week.

That night she lays in bed and thinks about Lexa Woods.  
And about the wall.  
She thinks about Adam Johnson.  
She thinks until her morning alarm goes off at 8.00AM.  
When she gets out of bed for breakfast she knows what she has to do.

\---

Her mom tries to call her. Clarke ignores it.  
Her mom sends her texts.  
She ignores them.

\---

It’s Friday.  
It’s also her first session of GOV101. She was supposed to take it as a freshman but the professor for health chemistry was retiring and she really wanted to take his class before he left. So now she’s stuck in here as a junior with a bunch of freshmen and a smattering of sophomores. There are about 100 students. Could be worse, for a freshman lecture class. A lot worse.

The professor strolls in and Clarke’s immediate impression is that of a turtle. There are wire rimmed glasses perched at the end of his short nose and he’s got this long skinny neck that sticks out from a lopsided collar.

“Good morning, everyone.” He says as he steps up to the podium, one hand flipping through a stack of notes and the other adjusting the loose green tie at his chest. “My name is either Mr. Hoffman or Professor Hoffman. Welcome to An Introduction to the American Government.” He starts up a powerpoint about himself, explaining who he is, where he came from, how he got his degree… Clarke tunes out. He seems nice but she can't say she truly cares about the 7 different legal firms and 3 different campaigns he has worked for. 

“I am delighted to announce that we have a T.A. for this semester.”  
Clarke continues to scroll aimlessly through her Facebook feed.

“Her name is Lexa Woods.”  
She looks up.  
Lexa stands, a few braids woven into her hair. She’s wearing a white blouse with lace around the open neckline. She holds her head high. Her voice rings clear through the auditorium.  
“My name is Lexa Woods. I am a master’s student here at Arkadia U. I have a major in political science from Scripps college. I am currently halfway through earning my Juris Doctorate and Masters in Criminology.” Lexa’s eyes rove over the crowd before they find Clarke’s.  
“I will provide my e-mail address and phone number for you to contact me with, should you have any questions.” Lexa walks up to the huge whiteboard behind Professor Hoffman and writes her name across it, along with her phone number and e-mail.

Clarke promptly punches both into her phone.

\---

When 10 o’clock hits, Clarke is back in the Roost.  
It’s a Friday night. The thick crowd makes her chest feel tight. It's funny. She used to be right at home in this atmosphere.  
By God’s good grace she manages to snag a table in the far corner. She settles in with her back against the wall where she can safely watch the throng.  
She orders a coke zero and waits.  
She sips her coke and plays solo scrabble on her phone.  
An hour passes.  
Still no sign.  
Another half hour goes by without anyone catching her attention.  
And then—  
It’s not Adam.  
It’s not someone she was expecting at all.  
Striding through the double doors at the entrance, messenger bag thrown over her shoulder, hair tied back into a bun, is Lexa Woods.  
What is she doing here? Clarke sits up in her seat to get a better look. She hadn’t pegged Lexa as one for the college bar scene.  
Lexa disappears into the crowd and Clarke fights the urge to relinquish her table in pursuit.  
She must wait for Adam.  
She orders another coke and sits back. She checks her phone but the only messages are the unread texts from her mom. Clarke sighs and taps the sleep button. Why is she still disappointed? It's not a surprise. Her contact with people is pretty minimal these days. The invitations to Friday night events decreased exponentially over the summer. Even her sorority sisters mostly leave her alone.

She’s not sure whether or not she’s grateful for that.

She catches a glimpse of Lexa at the bar. She’s talking to the bartender, but hasn’t put her bag down. It’s hard to see the countertop. Did she order anything? She isn’t taking a seat.  
Lexa doesn’t stay for much longer. Clarke spots her exiting about ten minutes later. Hm.

It’s around 1.30 and Clarke's eyes are starting to sting with exhaustion.  
It's time to call it a night.  
\--

The next night isn’t any better.  
Lexa doesn't come back, either.

\--

The Roost is understandably closed on Sunday night.

\---

On Monday she has classes from 9 AM to 3PM, then a sorority meeting, then a meeting at the local hospital about volunteering and maybe job shadowing, and suddenly it’s 8pm and she hasn’t eaten. She considers going to the Roost for dinner, but Thomas notifies her of a “pop quiz” in Biochem tomorrow and she goes to the library with some other pre-meds to pick his brain instead.

\---

On Tuesday Clarke makes friends with a young man named Bellamy who sits next to her in her General Physics class. She’s wary of him at first, given her recent track record with men, but he’s totally cordial. She thinks that he might be on the football or basketball team, but can’t quite remember. She doesn’t really keep up with sports anymore. He’s a senior and his sister is a freshman named Octavia.

“Wait. Octavia Blake.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“She’s one of the newbies at my sorority.” She has beautiful brunette hair and walks like she knows where she’s going. She wants to become a park naturalist, which surprises Clarke more than it should. Given the amount of black leather she wears a stunt actor would have made more sense. Maybe a professional motorcycle driver.

“Alpha Nu, right?” Bellamy questions.

“Yep,” she pops the ‘p’.

“So.” He leans forward on his elbows. “What’s it like, being part of a cult?”

She is not at all subtle about kicking him under the table.

“Ow!” 

“Sororities aren’t cults.”

“Don’t you hold weekly meetings with candles and chant and stuff…? Careful Clarke, roll your eyes any harder and they might fall out of your head.”

“Yes. Also when they “drop out” they don’t actually drop out. We kill them in order to steal their power.”

“Does that count as hazing?”

“Not if there’s nobody left alive to report about it.”

“Touché, Griffin.”

\---

She’s heading towards the stairs of the Goodall Lecture Hall when she spots her.  
Her name is Charlotte. She’s a sophomore in Delta Nu, a rival sorority. She has her head partially tucked into the crook of her elbow and her knees drawn up tight to her chest. Clarke considers passing her by (sometimes people want to cry without being disturbed. She gets that.), but there’s some guy hovering nearby who looks like he wants to talk to her. She wishes that this were the kind of world where she could trust a boy to have this girl’s best intentions at heart, but it’s not.  
So she stops.  
“Charlotte?” She keeps her voice gentle, like she’s trying to coax a cowering animal out of a cramped corner. She might very well be, for the way the girl jumps.

Clarke fishes in her bag and withdraws a packet of tissues. The guarded look in Charlotte’s eyes softens when she accepts the gift.  
“Thanks, Clarke.” Charlotte knowing her name comes as a bit of a surprise. She hadn’t considered herself to be a particularly notable member of the campus. Perhaps it’s because they’re in opposite sororities.  
Clarke sets her back against the stone wall beside Charlotte and slides down.  
Fall is starting to sink its teeth into the world. A few leaves remain stubbornly green. They cling to the last vestiges of summer, but a healthy coating of red, yellow, and orange are sprinkled on every surface. The late afternoon sun bathes the world in a beautiful golden hue, stretching out long blue shadows across the campus. It’s remarkably warm out, but there are still students swathed in scarves and long jackets to ward off the coming cold. This time last year Clarke was breaking into the horticulture building, jumping into the Shumway fountain, filling freshmen’s rooms with balloons, getting high on the roof of the church with--  
Charlotte sniffles next to her.  
“Do you wanna talk about it?”  
“I hate men.”  
“Preach.”  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, the cold ground slowly sapping heat from their bodies.  
“Do you know who that guy is?” Clarke asks quietly.  
Charlotte lets out this wet noise that’s somewhere between a hiccup and a scoff.  
“Davie.”  
They lapse back into silence.  
Clarke wants to ask Charlotte if he hurt her, but she thinks it’s too soon to broach the subject. She wants to give Charlotte the chance to bring it up.  
As gently as she can, Clarke asks,  
“Do you want me to leave?”  
She watches the other girl’s face carefully for a reaction.  
She sniffs, bites her lip, then shakes her head.  
That’s all she needs.  
A few minutes later,  
“Do you have a class you need to get to?” Charlotte’s voice is stripped free of annoyance and shot full of insecurity.  
“Nah.”  
The lecture started 7 minutes ago.  
“So… what did he do?”  
Charlotte looks at her.  
“What did who do?”  
“Davie.”  
“Oh, Davie?” She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, nothing. He just has a stupid crush on me.”  
Speak of the devil…  
He starts to make his way over.  
“Hey,” he flashes them both a charming smile. He’s attractive. Has a warm air about him.  
It makes Clarke instantly suspicious.  
“You could catch a cold, sitting on the concrete like that.”  
“I fail to see how that is any concern of yours.”  
“Well hello to you to,” he says, still friendly, still smiling. He pretends to cover part of his mouth and leans towards Charlotte like he’s sharing a secret with her. “Your friend’s goin through a bit of PMS over there huh,”  
“No.” Clarke snaps. “But I do have a severe intolerance for bullshit.”  
Out of the corner of her eye she notices Charlotte smile into her hand.  
“What’s your problem?” he asks.  
“You. Go away. Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk?”  
He doesn’t have a witty come back for that one, not when Charlotte remains stubbornly silent.  
Without another word he turns on his heel and leaves.  
“God he’s so annoying.” She murmurs, eyes sharp on his retreating figure. “He won’t take a hint.” She looks back to Clarke. “Thank you…”  
The corners of her lips twitch up into a smile.  
“You’re welcome.”  
Charlotte lets her legs fall so she’s sitting criss cross with her hands in her lap, now.  
“When are men going to disappear off of the face of the planet?”  
That makes Clarke laugh.  
“We don’t even need them to reproduce, did you know? We can create sperm artificially.”  
“Seriously? That’s amazing.”  
“The future is here.” Clarke smiles. “What are you majoring in, by the way?”  
“English. And you’re…”  
“Premed.”  
“Right.”  
They lapse back into silence for a few moments and Clarke searches for a discussion topic.  
“Do you wanna go get some coffee?”  
“That would be great.”  
They make more small talk and gossip about the undergrad professors while they sip their hot coffee on a bench.  
At one point Charlotte’s phone rings. She pulls it from her pocket and Clarke manages to see ‘Colton Strobach’ printed across the front for a second before Charlotte hits ‘ignore’. Colton Strobach...why is that name familiar?  
“Sorry about that.” Charlotte apologizes.  
“Men, right?”  
“Seriously.”

The afternoon gives way to sunset which gives way to Twilight. Clarke’s lecture is long since over.  
“Well, I suppose I should let you get about your day, huh?” Charlotte finally says. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do, too.”  
“Hey, I enjoyed talking with you.” Clarke replies, gently nudging her arm. It coaxes a small smile from Charlotte.  
“Clarke...thanks. For listening.”  
“I’m always around if you need me, okay? Here, let me give you my number.” Charlotte hands over her phone (while she’s inserting her number Clarke notices (5) missed call notifications).  
“Take care of yourself, okay?” Clarke instructs, and then the two young women part ways.  
\---

Wednesday she spends her evening in lab dissecting a uterus, of all things.

Thursday she’s strong armed into helping Harper set up a games night for the freshmen members.

Friday there’s a big swim meet and Clarke stays in claiming cramps.

As school starts to pick up Adam slowly gets lost on her priority list.

The next few weeks pass quickly. She’s taking Human Physiology I and she swears Professor Jackson manages to bring up the MCAT every single day, despite the fact that she only sees him twice a week. Or maybe that’s the anxiety pounding in the back of her head.

The latest she can take it is the summer after her junior year and she is so desperately unprepared.

“I am so desperately unprepared.” She groans at one of the sorority’s mandatory study sessions.

“Chin up, Griff. You got this in the bag.” Sharada says from where she’s got her feet propped against the back of a sofa.

“Easy for you to say. You’re a senior. You took it a year ago.”  
Sharada puts down the book she’s reading.

“How many MCAT nightmares have you had so far?”

“6?”

“Different or the same?”

“Different.”

“I had 42 different nightmares about that test.” She smiles, then. “The point is I passed. And you’re like a thousand times smarter than I am, so you’re definitely gonna pass, too.”

\---

She does not, however, pass her first gov quiz.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Trina, a classmate Clarke started to bond with, looks over. “What did you get?”

Clarke angles the 67 so she can see.

“Oh yikes.”

“What about you?”

Trina shows Clarke the 89.

“Hey that’s pretty good. Maybe you should tutor me.” Trinai laughs quietly.

“Oh, gosh, no, I’m afraid I’d be a terrible disappointment. I met up with Lexa for a few hours every week to study.” If Clarke wasn’t that engaged in the conversation before, she sure is now.

“What’s she like?”

“I was really nervous about meeting her at first because she’s so close to the Dean and the teachers seem to do whatever she asks—but she wasn’t mean at all. She’s very focused and to the point, but also very patient. I can see why she’s so popular.”

She finishes packing up her things. “I have to go.”

“Wait, can I take pictures of this so I can compare our answers? I want to be ready for the unit test.”

“Normally I’d say yes but I’m in a rush to meet my boyfriend, sorry.” She takes back her test and sticks it in her bag. “Go talk to Lexa.” With one last smile, she descends the stairs and exits the lecture hall.

\---

“Hi.”

Lexa looks up from her laptop.

“Hi.” She’s wearing a long green cardigan and flowing white shirt underneath. “Your text said that you wanted to go over the last quiz?”

“I kinda bombed it.” Clarke grimaces.

“We’ll get you back on track. Sit.” Lexa’s eyes flick back down to her laptop screen while Clarke takes the seat across from her. This branch of the library is organized so that the tables are pressed against the windows and separated by stacks. So while they can hear the low chatter of other students and shuffling of pages, there’s some degree of privacy.

She gets her quiz out to show Lexa.

The grade is a little embarrassing, honestly, but during their study session Lexa never makes Clarke feel stupid or inferior. At the end of their hour together Clarke’s reviewed everything she got wrong on the quiz and made a good start on her first essay.

She packs up her bags and is ready to go back to her dorm to study for the biochem test, but…  
“Lexa?” She looks at her over the top of her laptop’s screen. Clarke wonders if she can see all the questions bubbling on the tip of her tongue. Do people often ask her about the rumors? She must know about them. Do they bother her?

But Clarke isn’t interested in rumors right now.

“About that night outside of the Roost…”

The silence stretches between them.

“What about it?” Lexa finally presses after several agonizing moments.

“I--…” Clarke bites her lip and looks away. “Never mind.”

When Lexa speaks again her voice is painfully soft.

“Clarke…” she realizes it’s the first time that her name has been on Lexa’s lips. “Do you want to file charges against Adam?”

That’s not what she expected.

“I’m the one who hit him, though.”

“He attempted to sexually assault you.”

Lexa’s green eyes bore into her and Clarke feels stripped bare.

“I’m—no. Thank you. Goodbye, Lexa. I’ll see you next week.”  
\--  
*****  
TRIGGER WARNING**

When Clarke has her first nightmare of the year it is not about the MCAT.

She’s in a dimly lit house. The floor is pulsating. A frat brother carrying a keg pushes past her.  
“Talked to your mom lately?” he asks, then turns to leave without waiting for an answer. She isn’t herself. She watches from a distance, simply a spectator to the bizarre series of events. Dread begins to coil in her belly, deceptively heavy. A man with changing faces offers her drink after drink after drink. She accepts them all. Why does she accept them all?

“No.” She says. “No, thank you, but no.” He smiles and tilts his head. He looks like a puppy when he does that. “I know, I know. It’s been a while.” He brushes away hair from her forehead and she feels sorrow bloom in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she gasps. He wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He kisses her forehead. He pushes her against a wall. She can’t move her legs.  
“I’m so tired,” she tells him. He nods. He slips his fingers through the spaces between her rib cage, gripping them like they’re monkey bars at a jungle gym. She feels nausea radiating from the points where his fingers pierce her skin.

“I love you.” He murmurs against her neck, his tongue curling around her throat. “You are so beautiful.” His hips pin her down. She can feel the press of his erection through his pants.  
“Please,” she chokes out. “Please.” She beats her hands against him, but he’s made of solid stone. She beats her hands until the skin breaks.

**END WARNING  
*****

She wakes up.

Her bed is soaked in sweat. 

Gross. She’s shaking like a leaf. Her legs are hopelessly tangled in her bedsheets. She tears them away with her hands. She stumbles out of bed and knocks into her dresser. She winces. Ow. Hopefully that didn’t wake up Akiko.

Clarke quickly strips out of her sweat soaked pajamas. It’s an awkward affair. She tosses them carelessly onto the floor as she fights the feeling of her skin crawling, of wanting to climb out of her own body. She wishes she could strip out of it the same way that she stripped out of her pajamas.  
Instead, she slides on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Her phone says it’s 3.12 AM. 3 hours of sleep. Guess it will have to do. She walks over to her window, unlocks it and slides it up. The screen fell out last summer and she can’t be bothered to get it replaced. Clarke slides out onto the roof and closes the window behind her.

She turns over and slides her legs off of the roof, aiming for the stone bench below. The edge of the roof digs uncomfortably into her sternum, but she’s done this enough times to feel confident about where her feet will be when she lets go.

When she lands on the stone bench below it doesn’t even hurt her ankles. She hops down and takes off into the night.

It’s blessedly quiet on campus at this hour.

Normally, Clarke hates running. Doesn’t like the way it sends shockwaves bouncing up through her knees. But now, it’s a welcome method for overwriting the feeling of nausea clinging to her bones. Fresh October air burns in her lungs. She invites it in, asking it to set fire to every inch of her, praying for the cleansing release of a raging inferno. She doesn’t care if she burns alive with it. She pushes her legs faster and tries not to think.

She doesn’t know where she’s going until she recognizes the Cartwright stadium.  
The brick that propped the door open is no longer there.

She shoves her hands in her kangaroo pocket and bites her lip. It makes sense that it would be closed at this hour. She feels better now, but something in her still feels compelled to see the Wall.

Clarke approaches the door and is surprised to find that it’s unlocked. She doesn’t think twice before slipping inside. 

There’s still one light on. She turns on the rest, then sits on a bench where she can see the Wall. She curls her legs up against her chest.

Two hours later she jolts in surprise at the sound of the door opening accompanied by a cacophony of voices. She bolts for the back door but isn’t fast enough.

“Clarke?” She looks over her shoulder at the sound of her name to see Octavia Blake standing there with a duffel bag thrown over one shoulder.

Clarke flashes her a weak smile.  
“Hey Blake. Have a good practice.” Before Octavia has a chance to question her further, she slips out into the pre-dawn light. 

\---

Tonight.  
It’s going to be tonight.  
It’s time that Adam face justice.

\---

By the time she makes it to the bar it’s bordering on midnight.  
Fortunately he’s there when she arrives. By the pool table. Can he even play pool? She’s not sure she’s seen him holding a cue stick. In fact she is pretty sure he wouldn't know what a pool stick was even if it was shoved up his ass. Clarke is more than a little tempted to find out.

He’s holding a beer in one hand. Clarke is gratified to see that the wound on his head has bloomed into a colorful array of purples and blues. She’s also pleased to see that he’s talking to a young woman. And not one of his friends.

Anxiety claws briefly at her belly. Clarke presses forward before it has a chance to gain any purchase.

“Baby!” She purrs, walking right up to him. Adam looks immediately confused. “Listen, so the doctor left a message on our voicemail and said that you need to apply the cream to the irritated area at least twice a day, morning and night. In the meantime you’ll have to keep in your pants—Oh, I’m sorry!” She turns to the other woman like she’s only just now noticed her. “Who’s this, honey? Introduce me to your friend!” The ‘friend’ is looking around frantically, clearly desperate for an escape.  
“There’s a, a test tomorrow that I forgot to study for. In health. I’ll see you.” She calls back to Adam as she beats a hasty retreat. Clarke nearly laughs. Tomorrow is a Saturday.  
When she glances over at Adam he’s gone comically red. She could swear steam is about to burst out of his ears.  
“You—what—I—“ he stammers, all the insults and protests she’s sure he’s trying to lob getting stuck in his throat.  
What’s even better is that Clarke spoke loudly enough for pretty much everyone in the bar to hear her. She grins widely at Adam, and reaches up to cup his face. She pats his cheek gently.  
“If you so much as think about assaulting another girl,” she says, a grin still plastered on her face, “I will do, so, much, worse.” She pushes herself up onto her tiptoes to kiss the cut that’s slashed across his brow. “Goodnight.” And with that, she spins on her heel, and leaves.

\---

When Clarke had been laying in her bed that night, thinking about how Lexa had lied for her, she came to a conclusion.  
Women needed to stick up for one another.

Good luck now, dick. She smiles to herself. She directs her browser to Facebook.  
New notifications: 1  
Friend Requests:  
Charlotte Vidovic [confirm] [delete request]

Suddenly it hits her.  
The boy from the park bench. Colton Strobach. She remembers where she’s seen his name before.  
It was on The Wall of Shame.  
Her work isn’t over yet.


	3. Chapter 3

Abby's calls continue to go to voicemail.  
Missed calls: 8  
(1) ! New voice mail  
Voice mail: 2

It’s been at least three weeks since their fight. Clarke wants to remain angry. She wants to be upset. Her anger towards Abby feels like the last line of defense, but a defense against what? She doesn’t know.  
She ignores the messages anyway.  
\---

 

It’s early. Too early for any sane person to be anywhere but in bed. Which, naturally, explains Lexa’s presence in an alcove next to Leary Hall.  
Clarke slows her ploughing gait to consider saying hello.  
She squints through the pre dawn light at the massive clock tower on north campus. 6.38. She’s already late to the review. Why did Hildebrand have to schedule it so damn early?  
She adjusts the straps of her backpack, preparing to take off once again. But before she can take so much as a step another voice catches her attention.  
“You can’t exhibit this kind of behavior, Lexa. You are expected to be a role model.”  
Curiosity claws at Clarke. She ducks around the corner of the brick building so that she can listen without being seen.  
“Don’t change the subject.” Lexa replies. “You can’t continue to ignore this growing epidemic.”  
“I’m not ignoring it. I’m not ignoring it because it is not happening.”  
“That’s not what the paperwork says.”  
“There is no paperwork.”  
“There used to be. Before it was all shredded.”  
“Are you accusing me of something?”  
“...No.”  
“Do you mean to say, not yet?”  
Silence.  
A heavy sigh.  
“If you continue to abuse our relationship in this manner there will be serious consequences.”  
Then from around the corner of the building she appears. Nia Azgeda. The Dean of Students herself.  
She sweeps past where Clarke is hiding.  
Without waiting to see if Lexa is following, Clarke takes off towards McAuliffe to catch the remainder of the review.

\---

Late that night when she can’t sleep she thinks about Lexa's argument with the Dean.  
She thinks about her talk with Charlotte.  
She wonders about Colton.  
She gets out of her phone.  
A quick search on Facebook reveals that Strobach is a member of the Gamma Iota frat. Clarke rolls her eyes. What is it about frats that make men think they own the world?  
She’s already friends with him. Huh. She doesn’t remember doing that. Then again, she has nearly 1,000 friends on this social media hellsite. A few are bound to have slipped through the cracks. Maybe more than a few.  
She scrolls through his pictures. There are a lot. Charlotte appears in more than a few. Were they together? It’s not clear. It doesn’t really matter.  
If he hurt Charlotte, he needs to be taken down a peg. 

\---

They meet twice a week for an hour each time. Lexa does not bring up the attempted assault, for which Clarke is grateful.

It’s their fourth meeting and Clarke has had a shitty day. She fell asleep on her feet over a cadaver. The gum she’d been chewing fell out of her mouth and landed in this poor guy’s chest cavity. What’s worse, it was in front of six peers and their professor. She’d also received a 75 on a quiz in physiology and triggered another episode of stress over the MCAT. She needed to do laundry soon and contact her group members about their research project and get a letter of recommendation so she could fill out a volunteer application for the local hospital and her sisters wanted her to help plan their Halloween party and, and, and… She’s off game today and Lexa can tell. Clarke can see the question resting in the crease between her brow.

“Sorry. Long day.” She waves it off, trying to stay focused. Except that her phone buzzes loudly where it rests on the table. “Sorry.” She flips the screen up to see it’s a group message from  
Harper.

Alpha Nu Sisters  
(3.46 PM)  
Harper: Hey everyone! The lantern making party for Luminata is tonight, don’t forget! Remember to bring $5 for pizza! Lantern making materials will be provided. Music will be playing so if you want to study tonight, you might want to go to the library. Look forward to seeing you all!

Clarke groans.

“Something wrong?”

“There’s this thing going on my sorority house tonight…” She sighs. She almost wishes that she could take Lexa with her. She has this calming presence about her that sets Clarke at ease.

But maybe she doesn’t have to take her anywhere.

“Is it okay if I stay here?”

“Pardon?”

“To study. There isn’t another student coming after me, is there?”

Lexa shakes her head.

“Is that okay with you?”

Lexa nods.

Clarke doesn’t fight the smile that jumps to her face.  
\---  
It becomes a thing.

After she finishes tutoring for gov, Clarke pulls out her physio homework. Lexa works on her Trial Advocacy homework. 

They don’t talk, really. But it’s a comfortable sort of silence. Clarke thinks she’s even more productive here with Lexa than she is when cramming for tests with the other pre-meds. It manages to be both soothing and energizing.

At 9.30 PM sharp, Lexa packs up her things, says goodbye, and leaves.

Clarke waits for about ten minutes, then follows suit.  
\---

“What did the Constitutional Amendment seek to correct?”  
“The….declara–no…Articles of Confederation?” Lexa nods. She pushes one of her braids back over her ear. She is absolutely gorgeous. It’s a little distracting, if Clarke’s totally honest with herself. A semester ago she would not have hesitated to invite Lexa for a few rounds in the sheets, rumors be damned.  
But it’s not a semester ago.  
“What year was the convention?”  
“Uh…1768?”  
“…what year did we declare independence, Clarke?”  
Oh, shit. 76. The constitution didn’t exist before the country did.  
“Uh, 1786.”  
The corners of Lexa’s lips twitch, threatening a smile.  
“That’s not the year of independence, Clarke.”  
“Don’t get smart with me. I was answering your first question. July 4th, 1776, the United States of America won the revolutionary war. Calm down.” Lexa’s smile blooms on her face, even as she tries to hide it by looking down at her papers.  
She’s an excellent tutor, really, considering the mess she’s been handed. She never gets impatient with Clarke. She’s never condescending or rude, even when sometimes Clarke is so mad she wants to throw all of the papers off of the desk.  
“What were some of the major differences in Pinckey’s and Hamilton’s plans for government at the Constitutional Convention?”  
Clarke groans. Essay questions were going to be the death of her. She is slumping in her chair, looking for a distraction when she spots him.  
He pushes through the library doors, bag thrown casually over one shoulder. He’s turned away from her, talking to a brunette at his side. She says something and he throws his head back and laughs. Clarke can feel it all the way across the room.  
“…Clarke?” Lexa’s not an idiot. She knows something is going on. The concern in her bright green eyes is vibrant.  
Clarke can feel the wave of anxiety looming above her. She has seconds to act.  
Lexa’s wearing a beautiful grey V neck printed with the words "To Write Love On Her Arms” and Clarke decides to take the leap.  
“CanIholdyourhand?” The words tumble out of her mouth without any respect for space. Clarke desperately hopes Lexa understands because she isn’t sure she has the strength to ask again.  
Lexa blinks once, and then places her hand, palm up, on the table.  
Clarke snatches it up for the life preserver it is.  
She exhales slowly.  
His voice gets louder the closer he comes to their table. Clarke closes her eyes in an effort to focus on blocking him out. She clutches the firm hand in hers, the human connection, the protection she feels from this veritable stranger.  
A few seconds or a few hours pass before his voice has receded enough for Clarke to reopen her eyes. When she does she’s greeted by the sight of a steady green gaze.  
When Lexa opens her mouth to speak Clarke feels the rush of panic she just fought off begin to swell in her once more.  
“Do you want to go somewhere else?”  
Clarke deflates, basking in relief.  
“Yes, please.” She lets go of Lexa’s hand so she can collect her things. Her white knuckles fade back to red. She didn’t realize how tightly she was holding. If Lexa minds, she doesn’t say anything.  
They pack up their things and exit the building. Lexa says she knows of a good coffee place they can go to. Clarke’s too shaky to do anything but nod.  
They’re out on the street the next time Lexa speaks.  
“Clarke?” her voice is painfully gentle. Clarke’s knuckles turn white where they clutch the straps of her backpack. Her breath is sharp in her throat. “I won’t ask about it. You don't have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Clarke could sob in relief. Thank God. Thank God.  
\---

The next night she makes a stop at the Gamma Iota frat.

“Oh, hey, Clarke.” A lanky boy named Drew opens the door for her.  
“Haven’t seen you in a while.”  
She tries to smile but it’s more like a grimace.  
“I’m just here to get one of my books back.”  
There are four other boys strewn about the furniture in the lounge. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.  
“Well, if you need anything.” He says with a shrug.  
“Yeah. Thanks.” She makes a beeline for the stairs.  
The house is huge, but it’s not her first time here. Fortunately, most of the rooms still have nametags on them. It takes a little bit of hunting, but eventually she hits gold.

‘COLTON’ is printed boldly on a tag that’s slotted behind the laminated plate on the door.

She looks up and down the hallway before pulling the can of red spray paint from her pocket.  
She shakes the bottle to prime it, double checking that she won’t be interrupted in the middle of her work.  
It’s silent.  
Of course. It’s a Friday. Everyone’s out.  
She pulls up the collar of her shirt to keep from inhaling fumes.  
Her hands are steady. It only takes a few moments.  
Not the prettiest tag she’s ever made, but it gets the point across.  
Clarke takes a picture, quickly now, because she thinks she can hear someone coming down the hall. She hurriedly stuffs the spray paint back into her pockets and speed walks around a corner.  
She manages to slip out of the backdoor without notice.  
On her way back to her house she uploads the picture to her new anonymous Twitter account.

\---

When she checks her socmed in the morning, the picture of Colton’s door has 7 likes and 32 retweets. It might not be groundbreaking, but that’s 32-39 people who have acknowledged her warning.  
The photograph displays his bedroom door with the word ‘PREDATOR’ scrawled across it with red spray paint.


	4. Chapter 4

The week before Halloween Clarke finally gives in.  
She opens her texts.

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (Sept 23rd 12.48 PM): Clarke, I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to say those things.

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (Sept 26th 8.03 PM): Do your remember Mrs. Pladson? I saw her at the supermarket today. 

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (Oct 1st 1:02 AM): Hi honey. How is school going? I put a little money on your card for food. Are you eating well?

There are a dozen more like that.

Clarke bites her lip and starts typing.

Me (7.56 AM): Hi, mom. Wanted to let you know that school is going okay. I spend most of my time doing homework or studying for the MCAT. You know how it is. I think that maybe when I get some time I’ll try to make Dad’s apple pie. Hope you’re well.

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (8.00 AM): Clarke, it’s so good to hear from you. I sent a care package to your house, it should get there in a few days. If you make Dad’s pie let me know how it goes. I can never seem to get it right, personally. 

Me (8.07 AM): That’s because you can’t even turn on the oven without potentially burning down the house

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (8.10 AM): Touche. But it’s not like you’re any better.

Me (8.17 AM): Touche your touche

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (8.20 AM): Can we call soon?

Me (8.22 AM): Maybe. I’m really busy with school. I gotta go to class now, actually. Later.

Mom [Abigail Griffin] (8.23 AM): Talk to you later, love you.

\---

Me (6.02PM): Hi Lexa! It’s Clarke. Clarke Griffin. Can you tell me what time the special district meeting at city hall is supposed to be?

Her professor had offered 20 extra credit points for anyone who went. Those 20 points would bump Clarke up from a B to a B+. She meant to ask earlier, but was distracted by the realization she had no food and needed to go grocery shopping.

Lexa Woods (6.02PM) Hi, Clarke. The meeting begins at 6.30.

Clarke curses. It’s a 20 minute bike ride to town hall, a 45 minute walk. She’s biting her lip and thinking about asking if one of her sisters can give her a lift when her phone buzzes again.

Lexa Woods (6.03 PM) Would you like a ride? I’m leaving right now.

Me (6.03PM) Yes, please! Thank you Lexa you’re a lifesaver.

Lexa Woods(6.03PM) Where should I pick you up?

Fifteen minutes later Clarke rushes out the door, pulling one arm through her jacket, her backpack in tow behind her. 

Lexa’s van is already idling out front.

Over text she had described it to Clarke as a ‘soccer mom car’, and boy, is it ever. The paint is a faded red and there’s a dent in the front bumper. There's actually duct tape plastered around one of the headlights, holding it in.

Clarke climbs into the vehicle. 

“Hey, thank you so much for this,” she says as soon as she’s slammed the door behind her. “I really appreciate it.”

“I’m happy to help you out.” Lexa answers.

 

Clarke clips her seatbelt in and then Lexa takes off.

“Do you know how long the meeting is supposed to run for?” She asks.

“Forty-five minutes to an hour.”

They sit in silence for the remainder of the drive.

\---

Clarke bolts awake.

“What--?” Everyone in the room is in the process of gathering their things. The clock on the wall reads 7.30. The last thing she remembers is resting her eyes for a moment as the facilitator of the meeting made his opening notes.

Lexa’s hand is on her arm.

“Oh no. Did I sleep through the whole thing?”

Lexa nods.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh no. This is so embarrassing.”

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

“The same as anyone else.” She rubs her eyes, trying to block out memories of startling awake repeatedly the night before.

“Sleep is important for both your physical and mental health, Clarke.”

Clarke barks out a laugh.

“Tell that to the professors.” She slumps in her chair. “God. And I really needed this extra credit.”

“You still get the credit.”   
She looks up.

“I--but I slept through the whole thing?”

“You’re here. You signed the attendance sheet. I’ll give you my notes which you will, of course, read later.” Her tone brooks no room for argument, but these are already far more generous terms than Clarke expected.

“Lexa, thank you so much. That’s a huge weight off of my back.” She means it, too. So long as she’s passing Gov with a B+ or higher, she can put her real focus into her science classes. 

Lexa retrieves the notes out of her bag which are stacked in a neat pile. Clarke hastily accepts them, like she’s worried Lexa’s going to change her mind halfway through. 

“Would you like a ride home?” Clarke glances up at the clock again. 7.34. The sun set an hour ago.

“I… no. I don’t want to trouble you more, after all you’ve already done for me.”

“It’s no trouble.” Lexa’s beautiful green eyes don’t flit away when they catch her gaze.

“Let me buy you dinner.” The words came out faster than she intended, but she means them.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“No, please. Let me.”  
\---  
Clarke walks her over to this little chinese place.

“I know it’s not much to look at, but I promise the food is amazing.” Clarke says confidently as she holds the door open for Lexa. 

“Do you eat here often?” 

“Not often, really, but whenever my mom comes to visit. Once a semester, sometimes less.” They’re sliding into their seats when Clarke’s phone receives a text.

(1) NEW MESSAGE(S)!  
ABBY GRIFFIN

“Speak of the devil.” Clarke mutters, hitting the sleep button and thrusting the phone back into her pocket.

“You’re not on good terms with her.” she makes it a statement.

Clarke eyes a cup stain on the table adjacent to theirs.

“It's been getting better…” she folds her arms in front of her, “and it's not like you're on great terms with your mom, either.” she adds.

Lexa doesn't bat an eye.

“My mother is dead.”

Oh.

Well.

“How did she die?” 

“Child birth.”

“Having you?” 

Lexa offers the barest of nods.

Clarke looks her in the eye.

“Does it ever feel like you killed her?”

Lexa shifts back in her seat.

“I used to think so.”

Clarke chews on the inside of her cheek.

“what made it stop?”

“It never stopped, really. Over time the pain became less sharp. It aches, still. I expect it always will. But it doesn’t dictate my daily life as it once did.”

Their waiter makes an appearance to take their orders. Clarke completely forgot to open the menu. The man says he’ll come back. 

“Who did you lose?”

Clarke looks up from her menu.

“My dad.”

“You aren’t responsible for his death, Clarke. No more than a baby could be responsible for losing her mother during birth. Sometimes these things just happen.”

“Yeah.” Clarke crosses her arms on the table in front of herself again. “But why do they always have to happen to me?”

“If I ever figure it out I promise I will let you know.” 

“You mock my pain.” Clarke grumbles, fighting to keep the smile off of her face.

“Life is pain.” Lexa quips. “Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Their waiter returns and they order their meals. 

“That’s a pretty grim outlook to have.” Clarke says once their waiter has departed.

“Some might call it realistic.”

“I’m not sure that I want to live in a world like that.”

“Then it’s up to you to change it.”

That sounds like an immense task for one person, especially when that person is working on getting an internship and studying for the MCAT and taking a full load of classes. But she feels like her brain is melting, so she doesn’t say anything.

Theys it in awkward silence for about a minute.

“She’s not my mother.”

“Sorry?” 

“Nia. You said, ‘it’s not like you’re on great terms with your mother, either’. She isn’t my mother.” Clarke puts up a valiant fight against her own biology, but the blush appears on her cheeks regardless of her conscious consent. 

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, Clarke Griffin.”

“Well maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are, Lexa Woods.” Lexa smiles at her.

“Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about dinner?”

“I--”

“Because I was going to offer you a ride home, but if you want me to go now--”

“You’re so full of shit.” 

“Among other things.”

“So if she’s not your mom…”

“She’s my aunt, actually.”

“You’re an orphan.”

“Yes.”

“Like Harry Potter.”

“Except that the things I fight are decidedly more mundane than evil wizards.”

“Hamilton, then.”

“Someone’s been paying attention in Gov,” Lexa tips her water glass to Clarke in approval. “I aspire to be less egotistical, however.”

“So what were you and Dean Nia fighting about?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“See, this is why people are intimidated by you: it’s because you never talk about yourself. You’re shrouded in mystery.”

“It’s not on purpose.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m a college student. There aren’t any ulterior motives.” Okay, fair. Clarke knows what it’s like to be busy.

Their food arrives, and they lapse into a discussion about how biology and civil laws are always portrayed improperly in media.

When the bill comes, Clarke manages to grab it first.

“Let me pay half.” Lexa says, but Clarke ignores her. She’s pretty sure that she sees Lexa roll her eyes in her peripheral vision. 

On the drive back Clarke turns on the radio. She scrolls through a bunch of stations before finally settling on one. They make their drive back in comfortable silence. Lexa stops her van beside the sidewalk in front of Clarke’s house.

“Thanks again for the ride. And for the extra credit.”

“Thank you for dinner.”

Clarke smiles, one hand still resting on the open passenger door. 

“I’ll see you in class.”

“Yeah you will.” Clarke laughs. Lexa shakes her head, but Clarke can see the hint of a smile on her lips.

“Good night, Clarke.”

“Good night, Lexa.”

Clarke sleeps better that night than she has in weeks.

\---  
 **  
***  
(TRIGGER WARNING)**

She’s browsing through the aisles of the local Bartells for scotch tape when someone calls her name.

“Clarke?”

She turns to see Roma, military green backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

“Hey Roma. What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you?”

She puts back the roll of tape she was eyeing. 

“Yeah, of course.” She steps out of the store with Roma following behind. She tries to think if she’s done anything to offend Roma, or any of Roma’s friends.

“Coffee?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah that sounds great.” 

Roma’s friends...isn’t she--? No, she’s not in a sorority, but Clarke is pretty sure that she’s friends with Charlotte. She thinks. Maybe. She hopes Roma isn’t angry. Clarke doesn’t think she has the emotional fortitude to be chewed out right now.

They head for the Milky Way Cafe. Rain pelts down on them as they scamper through the streets. Clarke pulls up her hood and Roma yanks the collar of her jacket over her head to provide some protection. The sky’s so dark it looks like twilight. It’s a relief when they finally step through the door to the cafe, a tinkling bell announcing their arrival. The place is packed.

“Hey, Clarke. Are you looking for somewhere to sit?” a young man Clarke knew from the student senate, Miller, asks. “We’re just leaving. You can take our spot.” 

“Thanks, Miller. I owe you one.” She flashes him a smile before gesturing to Roma to join her at the secluded corner booth. 

Once they’ve both got their drinks and are comfortably seated (shucking off raincoats like snakes shedding their skin) Clarke starts probing.

“So how are you?”

“Charlotte told me what you did for her.” Roma cuts right to the chase. Clarke always did like that about her.

“I didn’t do anything for Charlotte.” Because if she did do something she could receive a mark on her permanent record for vandalism, and another for harassing a fellow student.

“Clarke, please. No one else will listen.”

She bites her bottom lip. She knows what that feels like.

“Alright. Okay. You can talk to me.”

“I was raped.”

Clarke’s knuckles turn white where she’s gripping her mug.  
Roma takes her silence as a cue to continue. 

“It was a few months ago. Before school started. I wasn’t even entirely sure that it counted as rape at first. I tried to take it to the school, but the counselor…”

“She tried to make it your fault, didn’t she?” Clarke asks gently. Roma won’t meet her eye.

“She kept asking me if I said no… how many times did I say no? How did I say no? What did I have to drink? What was I wearing? Was I looking for someone to sleep with when I went in?” She exhales slowly and Clarke tries to bottle the rage that’s bursting in her chest.

“So I went to go talk to ...talk to him, about what happened, hoping maybe he would confess, but he actually seemed bored. He said that it was my word against his, that nobody would believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Roma smiles. Just a little.

“Thanks, Clarke. That means a lot to me.”

She reaches across the table and puts her hand over Roma’s. 

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through. None of it is okay. Thank you for telling me.”

Roma shakes her head.

“I think the worst part is that I thought he was my friend. I actually trusted him. He acted like the whole thing was consensual. Said he was drunk and didn’t know any better. I mean it started out as consensual, but then--” She cuts herself off. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Roma, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You did nothing wrong.”

“Right, yeah. I know. I’m--thanks again, Clarke. I went up to him and I said, ‘Dax, you remember the other night? What we did?’ and he didn’t even remember what night it was until I showed him a picture of us that he even knew what I was there to talk about.”

Dax isn’t a very common name. He’s on the football team, she’s pretty sure. Dax...O something, something Irish, like O’donald.

“God, he’s such a prick...anyway. Clarke, thank you for listening. I think that’s really what I needed, in the end.” Clarke doubts it, but she’s happy that Roma felt like it helped.

Roma stands up, putting on her jacket and slinging her pack over her shoulder. “I’ll see you around?”

“Definitely.”

Half an hour later Clarke is staring at the Wall of Shame.

In one corner there’s a name scrawled with purple sharpie.

Dax O’Leary.

**(END WARNING)  
***  
**  
\---

She raps her knuckles against the wood of the apartment door but the sound is drowned out by the muffled music blasting from within. She glances at her phone. No new messages. She swipes to contacts and hits call. She has to turn up the volume to hear it dial. It rings, rings, rings, and goes to voicemail. 

This is ridiculous. 

She twists the doorknob and steps inside.

It’s dark. And cold. And loud. There’s only one light on in the corner of the room, partially illuminating the figure of a young man slumped into a beanbag. It looks like he’s being eaten by it. The far wall is comprised almost entirely of windows, all of which are open. Smoke is trailing out of them, and she catches a whiff of pot. 

She strides across the room and taps the beanbag occupant on the shoulder.

“Monty.” He jumps about a foot in the air.

“Christ on a cracker, Clarke! How did you get in here?”

“The door was open.” She says, music still pounding in the background.

“What?”

“The door was open.”

“WHAT?”

“I SAID--” she hits the power button on the massive speakers. “That the door is open.”

“It is?” He manages to twist himself around in his bean bag to notice that the door is indeed open. “Goddammit, Jasper.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“For you, Princess? Always.”

She winces.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Shit, right. I forgot. Sorry.”

He sort of bats at the smoke trailing from the end of his blunt.

“Would have cleaned up more if I’d known I was gonna have a visitor.”

“I did try to message you. I even called.” 

He frowns, then proceeds to dig his free hand into each of his pockets in turn. Coming up empty he searches the floor visually. 

“It’s getting late.”

“And the music was on and the door was open and I'm smoking pot in a ‘no smoking’ apartment and, and, and...yeah thanks for the lecture, Clarke. I get it.”

“You’re welcome.” He snuffs out the blunt on what looks like an old math test marked ‘102%’. He sets his laptop on the ground next to him. He unsuccessfuly tries a few times to heft himself out of the beanbag before Clarke takes pity on him and offers her hand. He smiles and graciously accepts.

“Close those windows for me won’t you?”

She sets about swinging the windows shut and flipping the locks. When all four are closed, she turns to see Monty kicking at the beanbag. He pushes it far enough to reveal the carpeted ground beneath, lying on top of which is a black cell phone.

“That would be why you didn’t get any of my calls.” Clarke says as she tucks her cold hands into her pockets.

“Oops. Sorry, Clarke.” He looks appropriately chagrin.

“Can I turn on some lights?”

“Please don’t, my eyes are sensitive. Have you had dinner? I’m getting the munchies. I’ll make us something.”

“In the dark?” He passes her on the way to the kitchen.

“Yes, in the dark. I know how my kitchen works, thank you very much.”

“Suit yourself.”

He starts digging around in the fridge.

“So what can I do you for?”

She takes a seat at one of the bar stools on the living room side of the counter.

“I need to access another student’s turnitin account.”

He sets a pan on the stove and sets down some eggs on the counter.

“Okay… which student?”

“Dax O’Leary.”

“Isn’t he on the football team?”

Monty starts to crack the eggs into the pan.

“I believe so.”

“Can I ask why, exactly, you need to get into his turnitin?”

“No, you may not.”  
He scowls and looks over from the pan.

“You’re not planning on--”

“Remember our deal, Monty.”

During their freshman year Clarke had worked as an administration assistant in the school’s records department. They had a few classes together during the year but didn’t speak much. One day towards the end of term while she was on duty, Monty had approached her with a request. He said that he had gone to visit his parents for the weekend, slept in, and missed a final, and that he needed her to look the other way while he installed a program onto the network that would give him an excused absence and therefore allow him to take the test. 

Well… he wasn’t asking to put in his grade. He just wanted a chance to take the test. That seemed fair. But there was something about this story that didn’t quite fit.   
After some probing, she got him to admit that he and his friend Jasper got crossfaded at a party and that was why he missed the test. But he wasn’t cheating, technically speaking, so she stepped aside. Monty had agreed to do her a favor someday in exchange. 

In the following months they’d become good friends. He was also the only person from Clarke’s old friend group who she still felt safe enough to talk to.

Monty throws in some spices into the pan along with the eggs and says,  
“Clarke, you know I’d help you out even if I didn’t owe you.” She knows he means it, too. Monty’s a good person.

“Then let’s say the deal is you don’t ask me any unnecessary questions and keep quiet about what you’re doing for me.”

He shakes his head and sighs, flipping over the omelette in the pan.

“Alright, alright. You’re either going to need to have access to his laptop or any computer that he may use to login to his turnitin. You’ll have to install a keylogging program.”

“Where do I get one of those?”

“Well there are a bunch online, but many don’t broadcast information across a network, aren’t secure, or aren’t very discrete. I wrote my own, but the latest version of it is on a usb that I loaned to a friend.”

“When can you get it back?”

“Not sure. She’s in the middle of a project and it can be difficult to pull her out of her lab when she’s approaching deadlines. I am still car-less, my bike was stolen last week, and the engineering lab is on the opposite side of campus from me. Plus I’ve been busy crunching for midterms.”

“Could I go pick it up?” He looks thoughtful for a moment.

“I suppose if I gave her a forewarning it would be alright. Just don’t let campus police get it. Or the real police.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Excellent. Now have some eggs.”

\---

There’s an event going on in the library and it is unusually loud. It’s hosted by a frat. A book signing, she thinks. It’s a subdued affair, but the faint smell of cooked food and quiet murmuring are nonetheless distracting for a young pre-med student who hasn’t eaten in probably 30 hours. 

“Clarke.” 

She startles, snaps her attention back to Lexa.

“Yeah?”

“The strict versus loose interpretation of the constitution…? Jefferson’s letter to the Danbury Baptist Church in 1802…?”

“Um….what about them?”

“Can you define them?”

“Ah...one… strict was backed by….Jefferson...and meant… that the constitution….was...firm.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows.

“And?”

“And that...meant...that I wasn’t paying attention because I can smell food I’m really sorry.”

“Clarke, when did you last eat?”

“Recently.” Her stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Perfect timing.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Do you think we could go back to my house to study? Between the noise and the smell of food…” 

“Sure.”

She’s not really sure what she expected Lexa to say, but her acceptance still somehow comes as a surprise. Still, Clarke doesn’t contest her decision. She immediately begins to pack her things. 

There’s a sea of bodies between them and the exit. Clarke falters, an unease beginning to well up inside of her. That is… a lot of people. She steels herself, rallying the strength she needs to push forward when Lexa suddenly overtakes her. Her hand reaches out behind her and Clarke grabs it for the lifeline that it is. It feels like a strange dream, to follow in Lexa’s wake through this mass of bodies.

The moment is quickly over. As soon as they’re past the throng Lexa drops Clarke’s hand. Clarke curls her fingers back and stuffs her hands into her armpits to fend off the cold. They start walking towards Greek row. Neither of them mentions the handholding.

It is wondrously quiet when they reach the house. A few girls are cooking and chatting in the kitchen and they say hi to Clarke when she steps in. If any of them are surprised by Lexa’s presence none of them say anything.

Lexa waits patiently while Clarke fishes in a cupboard for an energy bar. 

She smiles in thanks, then has Lexa follow her the rest of the way to her room. It’s nothing crazy, but she has a closet, a desk, and doesn’t have to share the space, so it’s all she really needs.

She dumps her things at the foot of the bed. It takes everything within her not to immediately collapse. There’s this bone deep exhaustion that’s been plaguing her recently and she’s starting to wonder if it’s caused by more than just her restless nights.

Clarke sits on her bed and invites Lexa to take the desk chair.

“Thank you for this.” She says, and Lexa nods ever so slightly. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, unzips her backpack, and reopens the government textbook. With the energy bar curbing the worst of her hunger and the silence of the house Clarke finds that she’s able to focus again.

They finish reviewing the cases and important events for this chapter and Lexa takes Clarke’s essay with the promise of providing her edits for later. They’re going over vocab for the next chapter when they start to lapse into a conversation about gun control.

“I hate that we haven’t done anything to change the second amendment.” Clarke says some time later. “This amendment was made when the strongest gun was a musket. You can’t exactly perform a mass shooting with a musket. It takes way too long to reload.”

“Guns are used for other things besides mass murders.” Lexa points out.

“So you have a handgun for self defense--pop off maybe 12 shots before you need to reload. You can use a hunting rifle to hunt, which I think is only 1 shot before you need to reload. But what on earth is anyone going to use an uzi for other than mowing down dozens of defenseless people?”

“Fair points.”

“Not to mention that background checks are basically useless. They’re not at all thorough and it’s incredibly easy to falsify information. You should hear what some of them are like. Actually, here.” She gets out her laptop and pulls up a youtube video of a man raving about his second amendment rights.

“People enjoy the feeling of power. Owning a vast treasure trove of weaponry gives that to some people.”

“I think that people’s lives are more important than some power trip.” Clarke snaps back.

“You’re right.” Lexa remains passive. 

“Of course I’m right.”

“But it’s important to consider both sides of an argument. It makes your position stronger.”

“I--you’re not doing anything after this, are you? Tonight?”

“No.”

“Good.” Clarke scoots over on her bed to make room for Lexa, then pats the bed next to her. Lexa makes her way over and sits down beside her.

“Have you heard of ‘Bowling for Columbine’?”

“I’ve watched it, but it’s been a long time.”

“It’s time for a refresher.”

She sets the computer on her lap, angled so that Lexa can see. They’re sitting close enough that their shoulders are pressing together. Clarke pulls the video up and hits ‘play’. Lexa sits with her hands in her lap. She watches the film studiously. 

About twenty minutes into the film Clarke decides to close her eyes for just a moment. She continues to listen to Michael Moore chatter on about gun control.

Next thing she knows, there’s music playing and the screen is black. She feels heavy. What happened? And… what’s her face pressed against? She sits up and oh, yes. It was Lexa’s shoulder. That’s not embarrassing at all.

“Sorry.” Clarke flashes her a sheepish smile.

Lexa smiles in return.

“I should get going.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for helping me study.” Clarke turns on the light beside her bed and gets up. She stands at the door while Lexa packs her things. Clarke watches her carefully, but Lexa’s just as smooth and graceful as ever.

After her bag is packed, Clarke leads her to the entrance of the sorority house.

“I’ll see you next week?”

“I’ll have your essay edited for you by next class. I’ll see you then.” Lexa smiles again, before stepping into the autumn night.

\---

It’s Halloween afternoon.

Monty’s friend is named Raven Reyes and she spends the majority of her time in the aeronautics building on the far edge of the campus. Monty mentions that this may be because Raven (and most aeronautical engineering students) has a proclivity to make things explode.

You need a badge to get into the aeronautics building (due to there being sensitive research projects and dangerous chemicals and probably the occasional explosions) so Clarke has to wait for another student to leave so that she can slip in while the door is open. 

The interior of the building is all white walls, tiles, and glass. Raven is in room d140 and is expecting her. The place is a bit of a maze, but there are enough maps and signs that Clarke manages to find her way around without anything particularly disastrous happening. She catches a passing student and has them badge her into the garage-like shop. There’s black and yellow caution tape cordoning off various locations on the floor and carts full of tools scattered around the massive room. She can’t see anyone from her immediate position, so she decides to investigate the music that’s echoing from somewhere further in. She strides around blocky machines, massive rolls of blueprint paper, and huge chunks of scrap metal. When she gets past a huge yellow...crusher, of some kind, she spots the room’s only occupant: a young latina woman sitting on a stool at a huge work bench. There’s a tiny speaker on the desk next to her that’s playing music. She’s nested in a tangle of wires and what look like motherboards. 

“Raven?”

The woman looks up.

“Clarke? Hi. Monty told me to expect you. I’ve got the USB. Give me just a minute and I’ll fetch it for you.” She does appear to be a little in the middle of something. She’s holding onto wire cutters and sporting massive gloves. Clarke stands to the side, wondering what she could possibly be doing. 

Somebody brushes past her.

There’s a Jason mask and a fake bloody machete hanging from their backpack.

“Hey babe. I got that chow mein I know that you like-- oh. Hi, Clarke.” Even before he turns around she knows who he is. She knows that hair. That gait. That jacket.

Finn Collins. 

Her insides go cold.

“I-- just remembered. I have a meeting.” She lets the half baked excuse hang in the air while she turns around. The door closes behind her, and she sprints out of the building.

\---  
 **  
***  
(TRIGGER WARNING) **  
She doesn’t stop after she’s out of the building. She keeps going.

When she finally comes to a stop the sun has set. She slides onto a park bench, not bothering to take off her backpack. It’s quiet here, away from the hustle and bustle of the campus. Some kids in costumes are going house to house. A dog barks off in the distance. The swings behind her squeak a little as they sway in the wind.

She leans forward and puts her head in her hands. Listens to the quiet. Focuses on making her lungs inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. 

When she looks up next, many of the porch lights are turned off. There aren’t people on the streets any more. When she checks her phone the LED display reads 10.22. 

There are no new notifications.

Some of her sisters invited her to stay in with them and watch scary movies. She said that she would try to make it. 

There are no new notifications.

She starts walking. 

She told Monty that she was going to see Raven today to get the tech.

There are no new notifications.

She walks past her house.

She walks past all the sorority houses.

She comes to a stop on the sidewalk in front of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. The door’s open. Music is blasting from within. Mutli-colored lights occasionally shine through the curtained windows and back light the throng of bodies.

She pushes her way inside.

A slightly overweight young man wearing a bloody doctors uniform walks up to her holding a drink.

“Hey, Clarke. Haven’t seen you a whi--hey?” She reaches forward and takes the drink from his hands. “Whoa, don’t have it all in on--” She tips back the glass, chugging it down.

“Well. Alright, then.”

She places the now empty glass back in his hands.

“Thanks, Chuck.”

“It’s-- oh, nevermind.”

She beelines for the kitchen. She spots a bottle of rum. She pops it open and starts splashing it into a red solo cup. She bumps elbows with a guy in a blue morph suit. She pauses long enough to glare at him, but with the suit covering his face it’s hard to tell if he noticed or not. Whatever. 

“Clarke! How are you? Hey, do you want some coke with that?” a girl in a red riding hood outfit asks. Clarke thinks her name is Lily.

“I’m good.” She says, swallowing down a mouthful.

“‘Kay… hey. What are you supposed to be?”

“An underpaid, overworked, pre-med university student.”

“...Right. I just thought maybe you were supposed to be a celebrity or something.”

“Nope.”

“Hey! Do you want to play beer pong with Stevens, Horace, and some others?”

Fuck it. It’s a party, isn’t it?

“Sure.”

She’s more aggressive than usual during the game but it seems to work in her favor. She and Stevens beat 4 or 5 teams in a row before a pair of sorority girls with an excellent backhand take them down. Clarke picks up her cup of rum and goes outside to watch a keg competition.

She’s halfway through her drink when she starts to feel sluggish. She’s not drunk. Not yet. Not after one drink and a few shots. She laughs at something that someone says, but she can’t remember why she thought it was funny. She braces herself against a post, feeling like she’s covered in a heavy blanket. This is bad. She knows it. 

Someone throws an arm around her shoulder and she leans into them. Stevens? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care, either.

She doesn’t know where her backpack went. She put it down at some point but it’s not with her anymore. Her phone...at least her phone is in one of her pockets. Which one? She has to check each pocket multiple times before she can pull it out, and when she does, she doesn’t remember why she wanted it in the first place.

Her shoulder support disappears. Did they tell her they were leaving? Someone steadies her. She laughs at her own clumsiness, thanks them. Why is she fighting this, again? Wait. Is that what she was doing? She needs to call someone. She doesn’t remember why, but she knows that she needs to. She really, really, needs to. 

She locks and unlocks her phone a few times before going to ‘recent calls’. She redials the last number.

“Lexa Woods.”

“Hi.” Clarke giggles. “I’m… I forgot why I called.” 

“Clarke? Are you okay?”

“Ummmm, yes. No. What was the question?”

“Are you with anyone?”

“No, I’m not seeing anyone. Very single. You?”

“Right now. The party you’re at. Did you bring anyone with you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Do you know anyone there?”

“Some guy named Stevens. I think her name is Lily? And….”

“Can you ask either of them if they can drive you home?”

“I can drive myself ho--no. I don’t have my keys. Or a car.”

“Clarke?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lexa. You called me. Clarke? Can you tell me where you are?”

“Greek row. Frat house--” she bumps into someone’s shoulder. Huh. She hadn’t realized she was walking.

“Hey. Are you okay?” The guy in the blue morph suit steadies her elbow.

“Yeah.” She grins at him. He seems nice. He’s not wearing his hood anymore. 

“Yeah?” He echoes, laughing a little. “Who are you on the phone with? Do any of your friends know you’re here?” 

“I’m on the phone with… uhm…” She pulls the phone away from her face to squint at the screen. The letters seem all jumbled up. “Lexa?”

“Clarke?” comes through in a muffled, tinny voice.

He takes the phone from her.

“Hi Lexa. I’m a friend of Clarke’s. I’ll take care of her.”

He ends the call. Clarke rests her head against his chest, grateful for the support. Everything is spinning.

“Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

**  
(END WARNING)  
*** **


End file.
